


all the secrets underneath your bed

by shatteredhourglass



Series: MFD Prompts [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Clint Barton, Crying, Crying During Sex, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom/sub Play, Except Not Really Because They Love Each Other, Filthy, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Mmmm That New Vibranium Arm, Overstimulation, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Slapping, Top Bucky Barnes, that's how it be sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 15:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “You remember that night in Cairo?”





	all the secrets underneath your bed

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Mandatory Fun Day for enabling me. It's their fault. I take no responsibility for this.
> 
> I've started writing a wave of Post-Endgame fics following that one post on Tumblr that hcs Clint getting a divorce, moving to his Bed-Stuy apartment and dying his hair blond. Hooray for mixed media.

“You remember that night in Cairo?”  
  
He knows Bucky remembers some of his time as the Winter Soldier, if not all of it- if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t have spent their introduction giving Clint that _look_. Clint’s question about whether he’d still want to fuck after being freed from Hydra’s grasp was answered within the first few days of being officially introduced to Barnes by Sam. (Sam doesn’t know Bucky sneaks off to Clint’s shithole apartment, apparently, and Clint’s happy to keep it that way. Sorry, Captain America.) Since then, Clint’s gotten used to Bucky randomly appearing in his space to share beer, food, sex and most notably that bottle of kiwi-flavoured lube he’d procured.  
  
Bucky glances sideways at him, the beer bottle held loosely in his metal fingers. He’s not even _trying_ to be hot and Clint’s still helplessly categorizing the lazy way his eyes run up over Clint’s bare arms up to his face, and the way his legs are sprawled out comfortably in his tight jeans. He likes the tattoos, apparently, which is sends a nice fizzle up Clint's spine. Everyone else just looked unsettled when they saw the ink twisting up his bicep, but Bucky looks at them with unguarded appreciation. It's an amusing coincidence he got the sleeve on his left arm.  
  
“Don’t know. You want to jog my memory?”  
  
“Not really,” Clint answers, fighting the heat rising to his face as he takes a swig of his own drink.  
  
_He_ remembers it in vivid fucking technicolour.  
  
It’s engraved onto the surface of his brain. He can still feel the hot bricks digging into his bare hands as he’d braced himself against the wall in that alleyway, the Soldier physically _ripping_ off his gear. They’d both been working to eliminate the same guy (and really, how had he not noticed SHIELD was Hydra before?) and Clint had been sweat-soaked and messy, absolutely fucking desperate for it. The Winter Soldier had delivered in spades, and Clint would be concerned about consent but it’s not like he’d even gotten his mouth open to say hello before he’d been shoved up a wall and fucked breathless.  
  
He’d been _more_ than fucked breathless, if he was honest with himself- which he rarely was. But he still remembers the roughness, the way his wrists had been pinned to the wall with a gloved hand as metal fingers teased his oversensitive skin. The Soldier had _enjoyed_ it, he remembers distantly. He’d smirked at Clint when he started trembling uncontrollably, fucked him until he was begging and then kept going, hand on Clint’s dick as he writhed in the Soldier’s hold.  
  
When the Soldier had stopped, much, _much_ later he’d slid down to the floor with cum smeared on his thighs and sat there for about three hours, his brain blissfully blank while the shakes settled.  
  
Yeah, it had been pretty good.  
  
He’s not expecting Bucky to replicate anything the Soldier used to do during their escapades- he doesn’t really have _any_ expectations for Bucky at all, when it comes down to it. He’d take this Bucky over the brainwashed one any day, anytime, but he can’t help reminiscing sometimes.

"Was that the fucker in the top hat?"

"Yeah," Clint says half-heartedly.  
  
“You were crying,” Bucky says distantly. Ah, shit. He remembers. Then his eyes snap back to Clint’s face, frighteningly intense. “I’m sorry. Fuck, that was too much.”  
  
Clint’s face feels like it’s on fire with the sheer humiliation of this conversation. Why do the gods hate him? Hell, maybe it’s just Natasha up there fucking with him. “I’m- it was fine, Barnes.”  
  
“I literally drove you into a breakdown,” Bucky argues. “I had to _carry_ you to the hotel. You slept for _two days_ after _ _.__ ”  
  
Clint covers his burning cheeks with his hands. He wonders if he can just launch himself out the window and make a break for it, take on a new identity as a simple old eggplant farmer in China. It would be a good life, without hot former-assassins and Clint’s disastrous sex life. He’d do it, too, if he hadn’t seen the worried look on Barnes’ face. Why was he cursed with feeling bad for other people? Couldn’t whatever god have just made him a uncaring asshole?  
  
He waits a few seconds, but no unearthly force decides to strike him down, which means he has to actually address his problems like an adult. He doesn’t like it.  
  
“It was probably the best sex I’ve ever had,” he says without removing his hands. He doesn’t want to see Bucky’s expression. “I still think about it and it’s been like, years. A lot of years.”  
  
“You liked it.”  
  
Clint can’t read the tone it’s said in. “I liked it.”  
  
There’s complete silence after that and Clint’s terrified of it, even more scared than he’d been when the explosion during the final battle with Thanos deafened him. Still, Natasha would kill him for hiding away like a coward, so he reluctantly removes his hands from his face and faces his fear.  
  
Bucky looks like he wants to eat him alive.  
  
That’s the only way to describe it, because he’s not sure what it means exactly but it’s _just_ intimidating enough that it turns him on a little. He feels his cheeks flush again and inwardly berates himself. It’s presumptuous to like it this much. Hell, what if Bucky's just having a flashback and wants to throw him through a wall? That expression could mean anything at all, knowing the way Bucky gets sometimes.  
  
“Barnes?”  
  
“I liked it too,” Bucky says, and there’s the barest hint of amusement on his face. “You looked fuckin’ _ruined_. Watched you for a few days from a window just to enjoy the marks colouring up.”  
  
“You enjoy the fact that I couldn’t _walk_ without my knees giving out too?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I did.”  
  
Clint’s on-board with this, god, he’s so on-board with talking about it if Bucky likes it.  
  
That look on Bucky’s face is promising and he can already feel the low buzz of arousal under the beers he’s had. Bucky’s just as affected, from the not-so-subtle tent in his pants- although he doesn’t have the bonus of the alcohol. Noticing his boner kicks Clint into action, setting his beer down on the battered coffee table before he strips off his sleeveless hoodie and undershirt in one go, flinging them onto a stool before he situates himself on Bucky’s thighs. (That way Bucky can’t complain about him leaving all his clothes on the floor.)  
  
Bucky gives him an amused look. “You want something, you gotta ask for it.”  
  
“You want it too,” Clint argues. “Why do I have t- _fuck_.”  
  
“You’re not convincing me,” Bucky says, slapping his ass again lightly for emphasis. He’s doing it with his flesh hand rather than the metal, and Clint __knows__ he can hit a lot harder than that but the sharp sting is just on that perfect edge between too much and not enough. He makes a noise before he can stop himself as Bucky palms his ass through his jeans, shocked at exactly how much the thrum of pain it turns him on. Bucky’s smirk widens and he feels his face go red again. Oh god.  
  
He’d opened the window to the fire escape expecting to watch the game on the television, to have a couple of beers and maybe a lazy handjob if Bucky was up to it. This is a whole other beast entirely. A beast he really wants to be mauled by.  
  
“Please,” he grits out.  
  
Bucky snorts at him. “Please what, Barton?”  
  
“Please don’t make me do this,” Clint says and he knows he sounds desperate. He already has a love-hate relationship with asking for things he wants, which Bucky __knows__ and is taking advantage of. Clint attempts to grind his hips down into Bucky’s, is immediately held still by his hips. Fuck. He’s going to die here, either of embarrassment or sexual frustration. Why does he like Bucky Barnes, again? “Fuck _me_. Please.”  
  
“Gonna do more than that,” Bucky says, and his tone is soft but there’s so much intent there that all of Clint’s muscles tense up in anticipation anyway. “Safeword?”  
  
“Dobby,” Clint answers immediately.  
  
“Why would you bring Harry Potter into sex?”  
  
“It’s what Joanne would want,” Clint says, grins at him when Bucky looks unimpressed. “Anyway, I don’t discuss literature at the best of times, it works.”  
  
“Right,” Bucky replies. “You do traffic lights? Red, yellow, green?”  
  
“Mmhm,” Clint agrees, taking advantage of Bucky’s distraction to grind down into him, look down at the impressive bulge in Bucky’s jeans. The relief is short-lived because after a few seconds the grip around his hips tighten and he’s halted from moving again. He makes a sound that’s more of a whining noise than anything else.  
  
“Pants off,” Bucky orders after a minute of watching Clint squirm in his hold, lets go.  
  
Clint doesn’t really want to get off of Bucky’s lap but there’s this annoying little voice in his head that absolutely _preens_ with delightover the idea of being good for him. He twists off of Bucky so he’s sitting with his back to the arm of the couch, lifts up and squirms until he gets his pants and underwear off and tosses them in the same direction of his shirt without looking. He’s suddenly grateful that there was no emergency call-out because getting his gear off like this would be near impossible with his hands already shaking from anticipation.  
  
When he looks up Bucky’s already spreading lube out on his metal fingers and Clint’s sharp inhale is too loud in his crappy apartment. He goes to move and Bucky pushes him back down easily with his other hand, eyes roaming up Clint’s body silently. Clint bites his lip hard because it’s embarrassing and hard to stay still and also because he can’t handle Bucky looking at him with that much heat in his eyes.

Clint spreads his legs a little in the hopes it’ll distract him but Bucky just smirks at him and pushes one of his knees wider. Yeah, it had been a mistake admitting that he’d trained with acrobats in his youth, because Bucky seems to like pushing his limits. Clint’s trying to behave, he really is, but Bucky’s just settling between his legs and watching him with clear amusement without _doing_ anything. He hasn’t got supersoldier strength but he still manages to hook his leg around Bucky’s back and nudge him closer, feeling the scrape of denim up his thighs.  
  
“Don’t be pushy,” Bucky says, vaguely chastising.  
  
“I wouldn’t have to be pushy if you weren’t such a fucking tease,” Clint retorts.  
  
Bucky slaps him.  
  
The pain cracks up his spine but the shock of it whites out Clint’s vision for a second. Bucky _slapped_ him. Worse than that, he can feel his eyes stinging and his dick twitching against his stomach, and _Jesus Christ_. He’s so turned on he could die.  
  
“Colour,” Bucky orders.  
  
“Green,” Clint breathes. “So green, so fucking green, _please_.”  
  
The vibranium fingers thrusting into him, slow but hard, are a revelation. Bucky’s aware he has a thing for the metal hand, but the other one hadn’t been particularly good for fingering. This one, however, is fucking glorious, and Clint makes a mental reminder to send Wakanda a letter of gratitude. He lets out a gasp and pushes down on them, twitching when the cool metal drags on his rim. That’s even _worse_ because he knows Bucky can regulate the temperature on that thing, which means he’s making it cold and unforgiving on purpose.  
  
It’s so good.  
  
Clint gets lost in the sensation. Bucky’s not being rough, exactly, but he’s certainly not being gentle. It’s perfect and he feels like his mind is unraveling a little at the edges as Bucky speeds up. He doesn’t check in with Clint, isn’t talking to him in that low voice he normally does when they’re fucking. When Clint blinks open his eyes blearily Bucky’s just watching his face with a frightening level of intensity in his gaze- he’s about to make a weak quip about it when Bucky twists his fingers at just the right angle and all the comes out is a moan.  
  
The telltale buzz of pleasure is building up at the base of his spine and he bats weakly at Bucky’s shoulder, struggles to fill his lungs with air when all he can think is largely swearwords.  
  
"What," Bucky says.   
  
“I’m gonna come,” he manages to get out, and his voice sounds wrecked already. “Shit, Bucky.”  
  
“Then do it,” Bucky says, without slowing down in the slightest. Clint’s finding it hard to gather up his thoughts well enough for talking when he’s overwhelmed by being finger-fucked this expertly, fucking hell. It’s hard enough not to start a stream of helpless begging already. "What's stopping you?"  
  
“Want you to fuck me,” he grits out.  
  
“Doesn’t matter what you want. _I_ want to see you lose it,” Bucky says, hitting his prostate again. It shouldn’t rev him up more, being talked to like he’s just there at Bucky’s mercy, with no input or control, but he has to sink his teeth into his own hand to muffle the noise he makes. Bucky doesn’t smile but there’s something smug about the way he looks at Clint, the way you’d look at a dog that had just learned to sit when ordered, and the spike of _want_ is so hard Clint’s vision blurs.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he says, voice cracking on the word.  
  
Bucky slaps him again and the rush of pain mixed with the overwhelming mess of feelings swirling in his head resolve into him shaking and coming untouched, arching up off the couch. He’s vaguely aware of Bucky’s hands on him, the wet sensation of lube and come on his stomach, the faraway sting of his cheek. It all feels indistinct and Clint feels… floaty, almost, pliant and boneless under Bucky’s fingers as he turned over onto his stomach, pulled up onto shaky knees.  
  
Everything sharpens into hyper-realistic clarity when he realizes _why_ he’s been put on his knees and he doesn’t quite manage to muffle the overwhelmed sob into the couch as Bucky’s dick presses against his hole. He’s too orgasm-high and fuzzy to tense up when Bucky pushes into him, too dazed to do anything but take it and shudder at the sensations crashing over him like a wave.  
  
“You wanted me to fuck you,” Bucky murmurs in his ear, voice rough. “Happy now? This what you wanted?”  
  
As he leans over to speak Clint’s suddenly aware of the brush of cotton on his skin, realizes Bucky hasn’t taken a single item of clothing off since they’ve started this. He shivers, clenches down without meaning to and gets a grunt from Bucky that makes him smile a little through the haze. The reprieve doesn’t last long, though, because then Bucky’s fucking him hard and unforgiving and it’s _too much_. He can’t even think anymore.  
  
"Bein' so good for me, Clint," he says. "So good."  
  
Clint’s openly sobbing into the fabric of the couch now, the sparks of pleasure sharpening into pain that’s so good but has him twitching like his body wants to get away. He's _good_. God, he'd normally hate this but he's clinging to Bucky's rough praise like a lifeline as he shakes. He’s far too oversensitive and the only reason he’s still on his trembling knees is because of Bucky’s firm grip on his hips holding him still, and that does _not_ help his situation whatsoever.  
  
“Please,” he croaks, not sure if he’s pleading for Bucky to stop or to keep going. It doesn’t matter like this, not really, because he knows Bucky’s going to do what he wants regardless of Clint.  
  
The fingers on one hip shift, brushing up the curve of Clint’s curved spine before Bucky hooks his hand in Clint’s hair and tugs, hard enough that Clint has to lift his face up. He’s completely unable to focus on anything he can see, sight blurred by tears and the sharp pangs of pleasure-pain ravaging him.  
  
“Look at me,” Bucky says roughly and Clint doesn’t even think about it, just turns his head to the side where he can see Bucky in his peripheral vision. He silently catalogues messy hair, the blurry shape of the metal arm on his hip. He doesn’t know what Bucky sees- it’s probably not attractive, considering his stinging cheek and the tear tracks he can feel on his face, but obviously Bucky likes it because he thrusts into Clint a little harder and then comes with a stream of curses.  
  
Clint drops his head back down into the couch and tries to remember how to breathe again.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky says after a minute of silence.  
  
“Hgh,” Clint mumbles into the worn leather, unable to even form a word.  
  
They stay there for a moment, and Bucky’s fingers loosen on Clint’s hair, start stroking through it softly instead. He’d been thinking of cutting it shorter again, but if it came with perks like this he could be convinced to leave it the way it was. He’s exhausted, mind completely blank, and all he can do is make a barely audible grunt when Bucky pulls out gently and rolls him onto his back.  
  
Clint looks up into his eyes blearily and thinks that there’s no way Bucky should be looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing the man’s ever seen, especially like this.  
  
“Hi,” he rasps. It sounds like he’s been swallowing shards of glass.  
  
“Hi. You look wrecked,” Bucky returns, his voice almost reverent. His fingers reach up to brush some lingering wetness from Clint’s face and it’s so tender Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek to halt the urge to cry again. “Want some water?”  
  
Clint’s mind doesn’t really have the clarity to process anything to do with _wanting_ things, and after a minute Bucky seems to realize he’s not going to get much beyond a vacant stare. Instead he gets his arms around Clint and lifts him off the couch, takes him into the bedroom. Clint’s set down on the mattress and then Bucky’s wrapping him up in more blankets than he even knew he possessed in his apartment. It all feels irrelevant in the face of the calm contentment settling down in his mind. He floats hazily, vaguely aware of Bucky moving around the room but not really paying him any heed until a glass of water is held to his lips.  
  
Normally he’d argue that he could do it himself but he can’t even feel his fingertips right now, so he lets Bucky fuss over him and ignores the butterflies in his stomach. He can feel sleep tugging at him even as Bucky sets down the glass on his windowsill, looks back at Clint. He looks… conflicted, for some reason Clint doesn’t have the brainpower to solve.  
  
He’s kind of cold, though, so he just lifts the edge of his mountain of blankets and looks at Bucky expectantly.  
  
The conflicted look dissolves immediately and Bucky shucks off his jeans and slides in next to Clint. He takes a few seconds to switch off and remove his aids and Clint’s grateful (waking up with them in is the actual _worst_.) Clint shuffles a little closer, grabs at Bucky’s shirt and presses his nose to warm skin. Whatever anxiety he’d had about this whole situation vanishes in the way Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and he feels the ghost of lips pressed against his hair.  
  
He should probably ask Bucky out on a date when his knees return to him.


End file.
